


Having and Wanting

by wubz-bubx-redux (Inorganic_soot)



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Anal Sex, BDSM, Choking, Dom!Ford, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Fingering, M/M, Teen Stans, Top!Ford, Under-negotiated Kink, bottom!stan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-13
Updated: 2018-01-13
Packaged: 2019-03-04 11:41:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13364016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inorganic_soot/pseuds/wubz-bubx-redux
Summary: Stan needs to be taught a lessonAn AU where Filbrick wasn't home when Ford confronted Stan about his broken science fair project.





	Having and Wanting

**Author's Note:**

> Bless you missbrandysnaps for giving me the motivation to finish this trash pile.

He pauses, his hand resting on the cool metal of the doorhandle. Flickering light seeps through the crack at the bottom of the door and the hole right in center of the aged, wooden slats, staining the linoleum flooring, illuminating his shoes, they are old and the sole is beginning to peel off; these are his best pair. Past this door, past this fragile barrier, mere feet away, Stan is waiting for him, waiting to comfort him, unaware that Ford knows what he has done. For a moment, he can hear only static, overwhelming and buzzing deep inside of him before it is interrupted by a soft, rumbling sound. Stan is laughing. His life is ruined and his brother is _laughing._

Anger bubbles inside him, frothing and roiling and of insensible intensity. He's going to kill him. No, that's not enough, that isn't satisfying enough. He's going to hurt Stan, wreck him, and it's going to feel _good._

Ford takes one shuddering breath, his mind is syrup slow now, centered on one thought: _Stanley._ He knows what he must do. A weight is lifted from his shoulder. Right now, he has purpose.

He opens the door quietly but does not enter.  Stan is limned by the harsh, grayscale brightness of the lit television screen, thick arms wrapped around his skinny legs. His shoulders are loose and he looks carefree. Stan hasn't noticed him, not yet.

The issue is that Stan is blind, he always has been. He is as unintentionally cruel and capricious as a summer storm; he’s swift, and utterly destructive – a maelstrom of uselessness. He’s a screw up, it’s in his nature. He can’t help it and no one has ever taught him better, but that doesn’t make Ford any less angry.

“Upstairs.” Ford says, short and sharp. He knows his parents aren't home but he doesn't want to disturbed, not when they've only just started.

Stan startles, falling off the sofa in a heap that is more pitiful than comedic. “Pops, I was just—” He squints, eyes adjusting to the dimness, pupils widening when he looks at Ford. “Heya, Sixer. What's—”

“Stan, upstairs. Now.”

His brother obeys this time, blessedly silent. He glances back to look at Ford as he walks, mouth open like he wants to say something before deciding not to. He looks confused. _The liar._

The walk upstairs is quick. Stan takes each step two at a time, socked feet soundless. Stan enters their bedroom first, standing awkwardly in the center of the carpet. He says nothing when Ford locks the door behind them. Stan looks scared, it’s not often that Ford has seen him like that. He wants more. With every step towards Stan, he sees it. A small flicker of need, more heavy and base than desire. A primal siren-song that brings colour to Stan’s cheeks, makes him desperate for air.

Stan bites the dry skin on his chapped bottom lip, before smoothing the dark pink indent with his tongue. “Ford.” He says, apprehensive. He doesn’t understand what he wants, but that is okay because Ford will show him.

“No. Not now, Stan.”

The pomade in Stan’s hair is sticky. The grease melts against his fingers as Ford drags Stan close, tugging at the roots hard enough that it must hurt. Stan follows, eyes wide. Ford is his cynosure, his north star. Even afraid and trembling in front of him, Stan is so damnably reverent, lips parted and pupils large as he looks at him. His eyes are half-lidded and his head tilts like he’s waiting for Ford to kiss him. And Ford does, butterfly-light against Stan’s cheek.

His brother sighs, leaning against him, and Ford curls a hand round Stan’s throat, squeezing tight. Stan’s pulse is hummingbird fast, thrumming against the soft pad of Ford’s finger. His brother makes a quiet, broken noise and his hands twitch as if he wants to push Ford away but thinks better of it.

“What are you doing?” Stan asks. Ford can feel the vibrations pass through his chest. His brother is still scared.

 “Giving you what you want.” Ford leans close, nose brushing against the Stan’s temple, he presses a soft kiss against his brother’s furrowed brow. “Feels suffocating, doesn’t it?” He whispers, lips grazing against Stan’s ear. Ford rubs the skin right where his neck curves into his jaw.

Ford pushes his knee between Stan’s legs and just as he’d predicted, Stan is hard. The shadows cast by the tent in his jeans is unexpectedly vulgar. Stan glances down, following his gaze, and it is only then that a veneer of shame muddies his features. The flush on his cheek grows darker, spreading down his neck like the flickering tip of a match finally catching light. He tries making a noise, but Ford squeezes his throat tighter. “Quiet.” Ford says, loosening his grip when he feels Stan has had enough.

Stan sucks in a deep breath, swallows and then nods. Ford feels his adam’s apple bob against his palm, hears the soft, wet sounds of his throat working. His eyes are oddly wet, dewy-dark and hazy.

“Lie down.” Ford says, letting Stan go.

His brother stumbles back, rubbing at his throat but he climbs onto the bottom bunk. He looks uncomfortable, hands resting on his belt like he doesn’t quite dare to undo it. Ford sits down on Stan’s bed, something he has not done in years. He has tried to purify himself of Stan’s presence, has tried to carve out separate spaces for them to no avail. If Stan wants him, he will have him. The mattress feels the same as his, but it smells different, musky and thick with his brother's scent. On the walls there are scantily-clad women lying over gleaming cars, magazines lie in the corner and then, in the corner of the bed, head pillowed awkwardly against the wall, the farthest away from Ford he can possibly be, is Stan who is waiting for him, nervous.

“I’m sorry.” Stan says, looking at him like he understands and Ford is reminded of standing in front of a Menorah, waiting for his mother to light the candles with him like she had promised. She never came, she forgot and she _lied,_ and even Ford’s child-mind understood this and he vowed to never forgive her.

“You’re not.” Ford says, voice thick in his throat and when he leans down and kisses him, it is a promise that one day Stan will be.

Stan tries to kiss him back, tries to push his tongue inside Ford’s mouth, and while Ford is sure that kissing is one of the few things Stan has more experience in than he does, he doesn’t want Stan to have the satisfaction. He bites at Stan’s lips, teeth harsh with warning, and Stan whimpers against him. It’s soft and high, almost feminine, and heat pools in Ford’s gut to hear Stan – big, burly _Stan_ – sound so needy.

Ford withdraws, large hands on Stan’s wrists, keeping them pinned by his side. There is nothing about Stan that is delicate, and yet, in the consuming quiet of this empty house, his brother looks vulnerable. Eyes glazed and half-lidded, stomach warm and yielding against the sharp points of Ford’s elbows. His lips are just a little bit pinker than usual, fuller and warmer than he had expected, and it strikes him that he finally knows what they feel like.

Ford pulls Stan down by his hips, making him lie flat against the bed. His brother stares up at him, unresisting and pliant. There is sweat on his temples, wet and shining. He’s so frightened, it’s thick in his scent. Stan’s gaze flickers downward as Ford’s hand rests on his belt and undoes it slowly, pulling it out and weighing it in his hands.

“Do you know what I’m about to do?”

Stan doesn’t nod but Ford isn’t asking for permission. Carefully, Ford takes both of Stan’s wrists and holds them in one hand, tying them to bed post with the other. He leans back on his knees and admires his handy-work. Stan is supine, stretched out and aching for Ford’s touch. Like this, the definition in his shoulders, the curve of his biceps are highlighted by the light from the lamp on their bedside. His shirt is slightly darker with dampness under his arms and the fabric rides up so that Ford can see a fragile sliver of Stan’s stomach. He looks good like this, aroused but so, so afraid.

“Ford—”

Ford shifts, sitting astride Stan’s legs, hips just below his cock. Through the fabric, Ford can see it twitch. He presses against his brother’s stiff dick with his palm and Stan squirms beneath him.

“—I don’t want to—” Stan says, so breathy and broken that Ford can’t even begin to believe him.

“You do.” He says, because if there is one thing he knows it is that Stan has wanted Ford since they were boys, has destroyed his life, clipped his wings to keep him here. Ford is not cruel, but he is young and bitter and he rubs Stan hard enough through the denim that the pleasure edges into pain. “This is what you want.”

Stan gasps, hips jerking upward into Ford’s hand. “Please.” He whispers.

Ford removes his hand, pushes it beneath the thin material of Stan’s shirt, rolling it up until it is bunched beneath Stan’s arms. Stan cries out, trying to writhe against Ford but unable to get enough leverage to do so. His socked feet scrabble against the sheets. “Please.” He says again, plaintive.

Ford leans down and kisses the erect bud of his nipple, bites the swell of Stan’s pectoral. His hand finds the other nipple and he twists hard. He feels his brother’s back arch and Stan moans, loud and unrestrained. “It hurts.” Stan says, not quite unhappy.

“I know.” _It’s supposed to_ , he wants to add, but he thinks Stan has finally realised that.

His fingers trail downwards, following the line of hair that begins at Stan’s navel that thickens as he gets lower. He swipes his thumb across the delicate, white stretch marks that curl around Stan’s lower stomach, and traces one with his tongue. Stan gains weight quickly, has always liked feeling full.

He undoes Stan’s zipper, careful not to graze against Stan’s dick. His fingers rest beneath the elastic of Stan’s boxers, where the vee of Stan’s pelvis starts. He pulls the fabric down to Stan’s knees, allowing his brother to kick off his jeans from there. Stan’s dick is wet at the tip, and he’s still hard even in the unseasonably cold spring air.

Stan is blushing from his scrutiny, and Ford watches redness swell across his chest, up his neck. It’s captivating, like watching an infection spread.

Ford undoes the buttons of his shirt, his hands are steady but he still goes slowly. When he’s done, he shrugs off his shirt and reaches up onto the top bunk, digging under his mattress. Stan is looking at him, expression hungry and pupils dilated. Ford hands close around the small tube and he pulls his hand down, flipping the cap open as he does.

“What’s that?” Stan says, more hesitant than Ford had expected.

“Lubricant, or would you rather I forego that?”

Stan’s breath hitches. “What’s it for?” He asks, voice high in his throat.

“Spread your legs, Stan.”

Stan doesn’t move.

Ford moves back on the bed, hands curling around his brother’s thin ankles and pushing them upwards and apart, revealing Stan’s twitching hole. He doesn’t stop him.

“Have you ever done this before?” Ford leans closer, hands wet, and cups Stan’s balls. Stan shivers, Ford’s fingers are cold and he doesn’t quite trust him, not anymore.

“What are you talking about, Ford? You know damn well I’ve jacked off.” Stan answers, confused, or at least pretending to be.

“Don’t play coy with me, Stan.” Ford’s index finger dips below Stan’s balls and circles his perineum. Realisation, like light, dawns in Stan’s eyes and he shifts away from Ford’s fingers. It does the opposite, exposing more of Stan’s ass. “Answer the question.” Ford says, hand squeezing the flesh of his brother’s backside.

“No. No, I haven’t.” Stan face is twisted away from him.

He’s embarrassed, Ford realizes. He is pleased by that, this is how he will teach his brother shame.

“I’m going to fuck you, Stan.” Ford says, heat rising in his cheeks. His cock twitches in his pants. He’s going to be inside something, another writhing body. He feels dizzy. Stan’s flush darkens. For a moment, they are both 13 again, completely silent, feet hanging off the pier, caught in the first timid bloom of adolescence. The sun is setting but it is warm on their face, in their gut, as they listen to the hushed, wet noises of a couple fucking below them. Through the cracks between the rough wood slats they can see them. _Fuck_ _me_ , someone whispers, and it is only when they are both home do they realise that the voice belonged to a man.

“Ford.” Stan says, quiet and wrecked. “Don’t—”

He’s cut off when Ford slips one finger inside of him, mouth loosening into a soft _Oh_ , as Ford rubs against his prostate. His cock leaks another bead of pre-come onto his stomach.

Stan is _tight,_ clenching on Ford’s finger and pulling him deeper. “More,” he whispers, “more, please.”

Just to spite him, Ford goes slow, rubbing small circles around Stan’s prostate. It’s only when Stan starts rocking back and keening that he pushes in another finger. His brother abdomen quivers, and his breath stutters, and Ford knows that it is because he can’t bear the heavy-full pain of Ford’s fingers inside him. He thrusts into Stan once, twice, before inserting a third finger. Stan trembles against him, knees shaking and mouth open in a soundless cry. His arms strain against the belt, fingers curling into fists.

“That enough?” Ford murmurs, thoughts muggy and slow as he watches his fingers disappear inside Stan with a rapturous intensity.

“Ford,” Stan says, broken, “I need you.”

Ford pushes his pants down to his thighs and lubes up his erection. Stan looks down, quiet, and there is only the slick noise of his brother touching himself.

“I know.” Ford whispers, as he lines up his cock with Stan’s hole, “I know.”

He thrusts inside, and Stan’s legs lock around his waist. Stan is tight, too tight. He's hurting, but he rocks his hips against Ford, begging for more.

He moves, thrusts jerky and uncoordinated. It’s filthy, the way the mattress squeaks beneath them, the way the bed rocks as they move. But it feels like nothing Ford can describe, maybe Stan is good for something.

“Touch me.” Stan says, desperate, trying to rub his dick against Ford’s abdomen. His eyes are wet, his fingers twitch uselessly, pale against the darkness of his belt, and he’s begging. It’s pathetic. Ford loves it.

Ford reaches down and jerks Stan’s dick, and his other hand, without thought, curls around Stan’s neck. He squeezes, hard enough that Stan can’t breathe and his brother comes, silent, trembling. He tightens around Ford, vicelike and Ford fucks him through it, watching the come spatter on his chest, on the backs of his hand.

Stan’s body loosens after orgasm, and Ford collapses on top of him, arms beneath his shoulders and hands curving around his collarbone, thrusting his brother onto his cock.

“That’s it.” Ford murmurs, “stay like this for me, Stan.”

Stan whimpers, oversensitive, breath hot against his ear, and Ford comes with a groan, rolling his hips and filling Stan.

He relishes in that feeling for a moment, a mixture of post-orgasmic lassitude and retribution, before pulling out of Stan with a hiss. He pauses, just for a moment, to watch his semen drip out of Stan’s hole before he leans over him and undoes the belt, freeing Stan. His brother’s pale skin is mottled with bruises, dark bands on his throat and wrists. Ford places a delicate kiss against the pulse point below each palm and Stan’s carotid. It’s intimate in a way that feels disingenuous

“Did you get what you wanted, Stan?” He asks.

Stan looks at him oddly, rubbing his wrists, breathing deep. “Yes.”

**Author's Note:**

> hmu at: https://wubblez-bubblez.tumblr.com/
> 
> also, unedited as usual.


End file.
